Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is

The Bud Stands For All Things, Even For Those Things That Don't Flower

To Me, Poetry Is Somebody Standing Up, So To Speak, And Saying, With As Little Concealment As Possible, What It Is For Him Or Her To Be On Earth At This Moment

Kiss The Mouth Which Tells You, Here, Here Is The World. This Mouth. This Laughter. These Temple Bones.

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?

There Are Two Versions To Every Poem – The Crying Version And The Straight Version